A Clock That Never Ticks
by Ivonovna
Summary: England is at war with Russia, causing famine and disparity in every direction. Meanwhile, L, ailed with an undiagnosed sickness, struggles to get to London before his time runs out...


**This is a major genre change from my usual (crack). So please tell me how my attempt at tragedy/sad is. Thanks :D! This story is set in late 18th century England, just so that viewers get an idea of the setting. It is not accurate of real events happening in that period, though. I might turn this into a two-shot, but please tell me what you think. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note**

**--**

The morning fog swirled as the gray silhouette slowly made his way down the cobblestone path. As the sun emerged from the horizon, it shed its light on the darkened figure. The face that was shown portrayed an air of sickliness, with a tired look to it. L lifted his head to look into the quickly approaching dawn. He knew not to hope for a bright atmosphere, these days there was nothing but cloudy skys. This country was to war torn for happiness, he thought. To his right there was the dead, and to the right there were the ones left alive, but with no life in their eyes. L took another step forward, stumbling and losing his balance. He collapsed onto the wet street in a fit of coughs, struggling to get back up. He didn't bother to call out, no help would come. This town was devoid of life, as the last one was.

As L picked himself up, he turned his head to the sound of a scuffle behind him. He quickly spun around, and was faced with the sight of a small kitten staring up at him with innocent eyes. His gaze softened, and he reached out to touch its head. The kitten's demeanor quickly became wary and vicious, and in its distrust bit his hand and scampered of into a nearby alley. L brought his sickly pale hand to his face, watching as blood welled up from the bite and slowly rolled down off onto the street below. L straightened and began to walk again, still in his stumbling gate. As the day progressed, the sky darkened further, and it soon began to rain. L took off his hat and looked up, allowing the droplets to roll of his face, closing his eyes and welcoming the fresh sting the cool droplets brought to his otherwise numb face. As the rainfall became steadily harder, and L figured it was time to find a shelter. Houses in this area were abandoned, and many of them no longer had suitable roofs. L's gaze switched over to a desolate shack that looked unwelcoming, but at least it had a roof. He walked into his temporary shelter, and fell against the wall, sliding slowly to the floor. His vision blurred as he was overcome by another coughing fit. L knew he was sick, but it had remained malignant until a few days before, forcing him to travel to the nearest doctor.

It was night when L awoke, the rain still pounding relentlessly against the metal of the shack. He was just dozing off again when the sounds of a small cry hit his ears. L lifted his head in the direction of the sound. He got to his knees and crawled over to the small opening in the shack. The small kitten he had encountered before was sitting out in the rain, covered in mud and grim. L held nothing against the kitten, it looked so pitiful sitting out there in the rain. L looked at his hand, and then at the kitten. He reached out to bring it in when the kitten began walking towards him. All of a sudden, his vision blurred when a dark shape crossed infront of him. He heard a high-pitched shriek, and shook his head to clear his line of sight. In the fog before him, a mangy dog was standing there with the kitten in its mouth, the kitten's neck obviously broken. L's eyes widened, wishing he hadn't cleared his vision. The dog turned and began to eat the kitten, having no mercy for the life that could've been.

L grasped his head in his hands; it was not as if he hadn't seen death before-it was the initial shock of watching something so young die in such a brutal manner. L reasoned with himself, concluding that it was only how the world worked. The biggest did what they needed for survival, no matter the cost. L noticed that the night was fading...had the whole ordeal really taken that long? L surmised that he didn't really know anything anymore, nor was it in his time to care about. His only goal was to reach London in the next few days, before his illness became worse.

L's stomach reeled as he got up, and it unfortunately reminded him that he had not had anything to eat in days. L was relieved to see that it was no longer raining, but the early morning fog had again set in, and it appeared that it had no intention of disappearing anytime soon. As L passed the blood stain that had been the kitten, Lawrence, he decided, he paused momentarily to give its death recognition, and moved on.

It was midday, and L found himself in the middle of a dirt path with no sign of a town nearby. He looked down at himself. He was mud covered and wet, not to forget the smell of him either. L shoved his hands in his coat pockets and leaned back against a decrepit old tree at the path. He then did something that had been a hobby of his for many years; falling into thought. His caretakers at the orphanage said it was bad for him, that to much thought would lead to nothing but trouble. They later threw him out for reasons that even to him still remained unknown. He had always doubted the system, the way things worked, and the simple-minded people regarded him as a threat and a danger. He had then been adopted by an elderly man with three other children in his care, and L had been able to make friends in them. Later on, their lives were claimed by an accident of the coast of Spain; their ship had collapsed from the pressure of the cargo, and the crew all drowned with the ship-including his foster family. L had become reclusive after that. In the past few years, his entire personality changed. He was no longer Alick; the carefree, generally friendly individual. He became L Lawliet, the infamous detective with a cold, indifferent approach to people. Not that he cared how people saw him, and as he dwelled on it, nothing really mattered to him anymore. L pushed off the trunk he was leaning against, continuing onward as it began to rain again.

It was late at night before L reached a fairly populated town. There were the town tramps lurking in the alleys, and L was always wary of possible muggers or thieves. In these times, people were desperate for some comfort, and most of the time they turned to alcohol or violence. L stepped to the side of a door just as an overweight man burst out onto the street, lurching around so that he face L.

"What the bloody hell are you looking at?!" The man screamed in a slur at L. L cocked his head in a mannerly fashion.

"Pardon me. I was just on my way into this pub.." L began. "Hell that you were! Bloody bastard!" The man gripped at the broken bottle he was holding and swung at L. L, with his hands still shoved into his pockets, brought his foot up to block the blow. He turned to the man. His gaze similar to that of an alert owl.

"I would advise against attacking me." L tried again, but his calm and polite tone seemed to do nothing but anger the man. The man pulled back and this time aimed a punch at L's face. L ducked and then came up again and kneed the man in the stomach. The man doubled over in pain, falling down to the street. L did nothing but nudge the man with his foot, and then turned to enter the pub.

Once he was inside, he took a seat on one of the stools at the front, waiting to be served. The man sitting next to him looked rather intimidated by the rest of the burly people sitting around the pub. He was small, with a squirrel-like look to his face. L deemed that he was worth conversing with, but only to the extent to get the information that he wanted to know.

"Do you know were the Russians are currently situated?" He asked in a whispery voice to the man seated next to him. The man looked up, startled.

"Why, yes! Of course, I'm Mathew, you are?" He extended his hand in an attempt for informality. L just widened his gaze further and stared at it. Mathew slowly retracted his hand.

"I'm L." He replied. Mathew's looked at him incredulously. "You mean _the _L? The famous detective?" L shook his head.

"Who I am is of no importance. Please answer the question." A bartender came up to him, asking what he would like for his order.

"Whiskey." He replied. The man thanked him and edged away. L was used to this, people were usually much more at unease around him then his present company. He realized that he had not been paying attention to Mathew, and was slightly startled when he asked, "Excuse me, L? Are you alright?"

L said nothing but continued to stare at him. Mathew bit his lip.

"I see...um, well then, the last I heard it was that they were camped in Le Havre, and are preparing to sail up England's coast to Aberdeen in a few day's time." Mathew finished, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief.

When L's drink arrived, he took a small sip and stood up, placing a few coins on the counter. He took out his pocketwatch, the time read eleven forty-five. He knew that it was getting late, and that he should be on his way if he hoped to find a bed for the night.

"Thank you for your cooperation." L said as he picked up his hat and put it on. Mathew's eyes followed him out as he went, and the final thought that found its way into his mind before L became all but obscured from vision was; _'What an odd man he was..' _

L walked back out onto the street, the dimly light cobblestones offering no warm in their gray exterior. The commotion of the bar faded as he walked down the street, glancing occasionally at the sign hanging above the doorways of buildings, waiting to find one that offered housing. Finally, he found one that read: STAGHORN INN. L walked through the door, and quickly conversed with the woman at the desk before placing a few coins in her hand and heading upstairs. Black enveloped his vision when he tripped on a loose floorboard and fell onto the bed, and he waited a few seconds before his vision came back. He decided that there were to be no more detours; first thing tomorrow he would board the early train to London. He was overcome by his fatigue, and allowed himself the rest he justly deserved after days of rough traveling.

--

**Don't ask about the name of the Inn. It was born special. I figure that somewhere along the line, L's going to meet Light or someone else he knows. In fact, please tell me who you'd like L to become a traveling companion of! Thank you, and please read and review :. **


End file.
